


Burning Love

by TeaAndKittens



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Firefighters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Yoga, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama & Romance, Fluff, Humor, Injury Recovery, M/M, Panties, Permanent Injury, Slow Burn, flexible Lance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-09-22 17:02:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9617018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaAndKittens/pseuds/TeaAndKittens
Summary: An injury sustained on the job for firefighter Keith means an extended medical leave that makes him feel useless and angry.  He's so desperate to get back to his crew at Station 5 that he's almost willing to try anything - except yoga.  Especially after Hunk calls this friend of his that owns a yoga studio and Keith gets supporting evidence for his claim that only crazy people practice yoga.Somehow, despite all of that, Hunk and Shiro manage to bully him into at least trying it.  He shows up for that first class expecting to hate it.  What he's not expecting is for Hunk's friend to be hot like the fire of a thousand suns.  Or even more insane in person.Or: Keith's life.  So Hard.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is somehow simultaneously the fault of, written for, a collaborative effort with, and much more successful because of [@jackalopes_vld](http://jackalopes-vld.tumblr.com/) who served as partner in crime, cheerleader, sounding board, beta, and probably some other stuff I'm forgetting along the way. She also did some ridiculously incredible art which you can find [HERE](http://jackalopes-vld.tumblr.com/post/156608602487/bronze-dove-sir-schneeflocke). Very much worth checking out.
> 
> A note about future content: first of all, please note the explicit rating. There will be smut in this story, a lot of very graphic, more than likely, slightly kinky smut. I point this out because I have somehow garnered a reputation as a fluff writer (which is very distressing) and I know I have a few readers who don't expect my stories to get graphic. I'm not 100% sure exactly what might end up included in those scenes and I will update tags and warnings accordingly as I post. Additionally, I did not add the warning for graphic violence, because that's not exactly what this is. But Keith is a firefighter, so there will be fires, and the not always pleasant results of such. Obviously I'd love to have as many readers for this as possible, but if either of those things might be upsetting for you, please consider that this might not be the Klance you're looking for. :D

Delores, their regular waitress was finally back from her vacation visiting her son and his new wife.  Somehow, at the end of her overnight shift she was still all smiles as she flitted around topping-off coffee and passing out checks.  Keith hated that he was going to ruin her much-anticipated return by murdering Shiro where he sat.  At least the red pleather booths would hide the blood.  If he’d have known all those years ago about the other man’s pathological inability to let anything go when it came to Keith and his opinion of Keith’s life choices, he’d have run screaming and never let Shiro weasel his way into Keith’s life.  That certainly seemed easier than committing homicide in the idyllic warmth of the mid-morning summer sun streaming in through the bank of windows to their left, anyway.

 

The silent, judgemental look Shiro aimed at Keith from his seat across the table was somehow louder than the low easy sway of the oldies radio, or the sharp clinking of glassware - Shiro did silent disapproval at an olympic level.  How he could muster the energy for that after a night at the station, Keith would never know. 

 

“It’s weird that you won’t let this go.  You realize it’s weird, right?”  Keith tilted his chin up in challenge.  He was self aware enough to realize this moment was a microcosm of his entire relationship with Shiro: him daring Shiro to not back down, and then Shiro...not backing down.  But he didn't care.  He was still reeling from his eight a.m. meeting with the department chief and letting Shiro talk him into something he didn't want to do felt like a bridge too far.

 

Shiro rolled his eyes, visibly annoyed.   “Yes, so weird that I care about you and your health.”  Sarcasm dripped from every syllable, but there was also an odd sincerity there that sort of ruined the whole effect.  There was a reason everyone at Station 5 called him Station Dad and he was turning that potent mix of exasperation and affection on Keith now. 

 

Of course, Keith had a lot more time to practice not being affected by that than all the guys at the station had; the last of his teenage years had been nothing but an exercise in pretending he didn’t care about Shiro’s Disappointed Face TM while hoping desperately he never saw it again.  He trailed his finger through the condensation ring his glass had left on the table; deflect and misdirect were definitely on today’s agenda.  “I get that you are physically incapable of not micro-managing my life, but seriously, why are you so fixated on this?”  

 

The muscle in Shiro’s cheek twitched, like he was gritting his teeth.  Apparently the portion of the program where he tolerated Keith’s shit was over.  “Because your doctor recommended it after you finished your rehab, and for some unfathomable reason, he and I both want to see you get back to the shape you were in before. Even if you are the world’s most ungrateful bastard about it.”  It was clear he was frustrated, but there also seemed to be some genuine anger there.

 

That barb hit a little too close to home, only hours since the department’s decision to extend his medical leave another eight weeks.  He looked to the side, where Hunk was pushing eggs around on his plate and dutifully pretending like he wasn’t hearing any of this, for some help.  The way Hunk stared even harder at the burn pattern on his toast during the brief lull in conversation told Keith everything he needed to know about the idea of having support in his corner.  He huffed hard enough to ruffle the hair falling in his face.  “I’m doing just fine with the workout I have now.  I don’t need to add anything else.”  He considered Hunk a good friend, and he loved Shiro like a brother, but this was too raw and their brunch venue was too public to have any desire to get into all the complicated emotions surrounding his continued rehabbing of the knee.

 

Shiro raised an eyebrow.  “Why are you so afraid of doing yoga?”

 

Keith crossed his arms, then uncrossed them when he realized how defensive that looked.  He had a point, and even if he didn’t feel like he should have to elucidate it, there was still something that felt a little like admitting defeat in taking a defensive position.   “I’m not  _ afraid. _  I just think it’s stupid.”  Visions of patchouli-scented girls wearing crystals and guys in possession of way more spandex than sense prattling on about love and energy and connectedness danced through Keith’s brain.   

 

The look Shiro favored him with was distinctly unimpressed.  “You know it did wonders for me when I broke my collarbone last year.”

 

“That’s you though.”  Shiro was the type to both not mind nor get caught up in all the woo-woo nonsense that came with practicing yoga and simply enjoy the physical benefits.  Keith wasn’t as confident in his own ability to simply go with it and looked away rather than admit it out loud.  Suddenly the scarred and pitted formica tabletop in a virtually unidentifiable color was a lot more interesting.  “I just don’t get why this matters.  I have belts in three different martial arts; what is yoga gonna do for me?”

 

Shiro sighed.  It was the sound of a man who had repeated himself more times than he felt he should have to endure.  He made that sound around Keith a lot.  “It’s going to give you flexibility and range of motion.  Like your doctor said.”  Infinite patience lurked in the set of his mouth and the way his eyes crinkled.  While the sigh spoke of frustration, his expression made it clear that he’d keep repeating himself over and over, however many times it took, to convince Keith to at least consider this possibility.

 

“Not everything is about speed and strength, Keith,”  Hunk interjected, finally ending his silent observation of their argument and his breakfast.

 

Grateful for the intervention, Keith laughed lightly.  Even though Hunk was  _ technically  _ agreeing with Shiro, it still popped the bubble of tension that had shrouded their regular table at the diner.  “Says the guy who routinely embarasses all of us in the weight room.”

 

Hunk shrugged, looking slightly flustered by the compliment.  “My workouts got a lot more effective when I added yoga into the routine.”

 

Keith looked over at him, surprised.  “What?”  Even if Keith had been the type to assume that being heavier meant that Hunk was out of  shape or incapable of keeping up with some of the more trim guys, Hunk would have proven him wrong a thousand times over, but he still didn’t look like the kind of guy who practiced yoga regularly.  Not that Keith knew what the fuck that meant anyway, even in his own head.

 

Hunk smiled, a hint of mischief hovering in the expression.  “I agree with Shiro.  I think it would be worth trying anyway, but doubly so since your doctor recommended it.  Don’t forget, this guy’s  _ entire job _ is to get you back on the crew, so it’d probably go over real well for him to recommend something stupid and pointless to you.”

 

Since he was so often warm and genial, it was easy to forget what a sarcastic shit Hunk could be when he was in the mood.  Keith pouted, feeling ganged up on.  “Yeah, and he did his part already.  Got the knee healthy.  Now it’s on me to make up for all the time I lost and get back in shape enough to come back to work.”  He figured the petulance in his tone could be forgiven considering these were supposed to be his  _ friends _ and they were treating him like some unreasonable, rebellious child - even if it did sort of prove their point.  Whatever.

 

Never one to ignore such an obvious opening, Shiro smirked and leaned forward in his seat, clearly eager to land his next conversational blow.  “And if this is something that can help you - safely - come back faster, then it shouldn’t be a big deal to just try it, right?  Go to a class or two, check it out.  If it really does nothing for your knee then you can give me and your doctor all the ‘i-told-you-sos’ you want.”

 

“Whatever,” Keith mumbled.  He was infinitely grateful that Shiro went the way of mocking him.  Keith could so easily picture him giving him that soft, empathetic smile he always managed to make look genuine rather than condescending, and putting a comforting hand on his shoulder, and being so very  _ understanding _ about how desperate Keith was to get back to work.  Even just imagining it set Keith’s teeth on edge and made his skin crawl.

 

Well practiced at ignoring all the complicated emotions Keith and Shiro tended to leak all over each other, Hunk waved a hand through the air in a casual gesture.  “Look, how about this.  I have a friend that co-owns a studio not too far from here.  I can talk to him and see if he can maybe cut you a deal, let you try your first couple of classes at a discount to see how they go.  If you like it, then you sign up for a membership, and if you don’t well, no big deal.”  He shot Keith a wheedling look.  “I’ll even go with you if you want.”

 

Smug as all hell, Shiro sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.  “That sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me.”

 

Knowing he was well cornered, Keith sighed.  “Yeah, okay.  Fine, talk to your friend.”  He threw a tentative smile over at Hunk.  “And thanks.”  Despite feeling like he’d been railroaded, Keith did recognize that Hunk was going out of his way to make this easier for him and he did appreciate that.

 

Hunk smiled and grabbed his phone from its resting place on the table.  “No problem man,” he tossed over his shoulder while he poked at the screen.  Seconds later his button-pushing resulted in the sound of ringing.

 

An uneasy feeling, more potent and longer lasting than the one caused by the scent of burnt grease that permeated the air in the restaurant, settled in Keith’s gut.  Warily, he turned in the seat to look at Hunk more fully, the slow creak of the cheap seat covering making the move feel more ominous.  “What are you doing?”

 

The gleefully sadistic look Hunk wore now would have looked nasty or mean-spirited on anyone but Hunk.  Somehow, he managed to make it just seem childishly devious.  “Making sure you don’t find some excuse to back out at the last minute.”

 

The call finally connected, and an exuberant voice crowed, “Hunk, my large and in charge brother from another mother, what’s crackalackin?” apparently with complete seriousness.  What.  Even.

 

Laughing loud and boisterous, Hunk settled back in the booth, looking more relaxed than maybe Keith had ever seen him.  “Dear god, how many times have I begged you to stop watching 90’s sitcoms?”

 

The voice on the other end of the call dropped down to a low, silky timbre and spoke in a cadence that more closely resembled purring than normal human speech.  “Hunk, you sexy beast, if I ever get you begging it won’t be about my Netflix list.”

 

To their right, a few booths over, there was a mother who had been trying - and failing - to corral her sticky-faced and sugar-hyped toddler for almost the entirety of the meal.  Hearing the tone of their conversation, she gave them a sharply disapproving look, her pursed mouth and pinched expression making her look like she was sucking on a lemon.

 

Hunk didn’t appear to have even noticed her scrutiny, or if he did, he simply ignored it entirely, deadpanning, “still not gay,” to his friend on the other end of the line.

 

The angry woman was still glaring, so Shiro offered her an expression that was somewhere between a grimace and an apologetic smile.

 

Watching all of it unfold, Keith took a little bit of perverse pleasure in seeing the child smear his equally-sticky hands over what appeared to be a tastefully expensive cardigan the mother donned.  Keith smiled a little vindictively to himself.

 

Shiro kicked him under the table, even though he hadn’t turned back toward him, furthering the legend of Station Dad and his epic eyes-in-the-back-of-his-head prowess.

 

“Still not concerned with the trivial details,” the mystery friend sing-songed back, amusement and affection wrapped in every syllable.  It had the sound of a familiar and oft-repeated refrain for the two.

 

Finally cluing in to their less than enthused audience, Hunk shot the woman a sheepish look and informed his friend, “you’re on speaker.”

 

The other guy snorted, the sound staticy and distorted, which did nothing to camouflage his obvious humor at the situation.  “Hi, collection of other individuals who decided to lurk creepily while I attempted to seduce my best friend.”

 

“Hello,” Shiro greeted cordially, if somewhat awkwardly.

 

At the same time Keith scoffed, “is that what you’re calling that?” not even bothering to pretend he felt bad about talking over Shiro.

 

Hunk’s friend laughed like he was delighted with the jibe.  What a nut job.  “Ooohh, a critic.  Well Roger Ebert clone, I would love to break down for you all the reasons why my love for Hunk is both beautiful and tragic, and why my continued efforts to win his heart despite numerous rejections are both poetic and heroic, but I’ve got to start setting up for a class soon.”

 

What?  The actual fuck?  Was wrong with this guy?  Who even talked like that?  Keith opened his mouth to reply, but bit off the comment when Hunk speared him with a quelling look.

 

Continuing blithely, like he hadn’t just promised pain and destruction with a single glance, Hunk redirected the conversation.  “That’s actually why I’m calling.”

 

“Oh?”  There was a subtle shift in the voice on the line, something slightly more serious but just as inquisitive.  It was enough for it not to seem quite so far-fetched that the person attached to that voice owned their own business.

 

Hunk hummed softly and nodded.  It wasn’t exactly clear what he was agreeing with or whose benefit the gestures were for, but that didn’t seem to affect him in the slightest if the placid smile on his face was anything to go by.  “You remember that friend at the station I told you about that hurt his knee?  I was going to send him for a few beginner’s classes.”

 

The sour-faced mom was still judging them pointedly from her table; she was easier to look at than either of Keith’s friends.  He watched her entirely ignore the way her kid was still waving his sticky hands around wildly in favor of trying to incinerate them with the power of her mind.  Not for the first time, Keith lamented Shiro’s incredible sixth sense for detecting when someone - Keith especially - was about to cause trouble.  He badly wanted to subtly encourage the kid to bury those hands in the overly-bleached hair it looked like the woman spent a lot of money on.  Not only would it be enormously satisfying, but it might just provide the out Keith needed from this painful conversation.

 

On the phone, Hunk’s friend took a deep, audible breath.  “Hunk, bud, while I appreciate the referral, I’m not a medical professional.  I’m not sure I can endorse yoga as PT.”

 

Upon hearing that, Keith’s eyebrow twitched upward a little in surprise.  Weren’t all those yoga types into all that alternative medicine and not trusting your doctors and shit?  He hadn’t expected this friend of Hunk’s to be so reasonable.  Especially not when simply talking to him for five minutes had provided enough evidence to convince Keith he was a few candles short of seance.

 

“No, no,” Hunk was quick to reassure, waving his hands through the air like he was trying to wave off the suggestion despite the fact that his friend couldn’t see him.  “He’s already finished his rehab.  His doctor is actually the one who recommended it just to regain some of the flexibility and range of motion he lost during the healing process,” he hurried to add, words tripping over themselves on the way out his mouth in a jumbled mess with his haste to clear up the misunderstanding.

 

The guy on the phone made a clicking noise with his tongue.  “Ah.   _ That _ I can work with.  Tell him to swing by any time and I’ll help him work out a good schedule.”

 

Keith’s hands clenched into fists where they rested on his thighs without his conscious input.  He  _ hated  _ this.  Hated being discussed like a  _ project _ , hated that a friend of a friend was going to  _ work with  _ his current limitations, hated that he had limitations in the first place, hated that his goddamn leg wouldn’t just  _ work like it used to _ .  In his frustration, he committed himself to trying to glare a hole in the tabletop, not even Sticky Kid was enough to distract him from the painful knot in his chest.  What Keith hated most of all was that he was at the point of exploring additional options, that what he knew to do hadn’t been enough.  It sparked a fear in him that  _ nothing  _ would be enough, that eventually he’d run out of alternative options, and then he’d be left with the reality that this was as good as his knee would ever get.  Just the thought of that was enough to have him feeling a little lightheaded and reminding himself silently to  _ breathe _ .

 

A chagrined look bloomed on Hunk’s face and he chuckled nervously and scratched the side of his face absently.  “Uh, slight problem with that.  He’s not exactly a hundred percent convinced of the benefits of yoga.”  He winced a little at the end, like he’d just told his friend he’d slept with his sister or something.

 

A loud, overly dramatic gasp warbled out of the speaker.  “And you want to send a non-believer into  _ my  _ fine establishment?”

 

Keith’s attention darted over to Hunk’s phone, sitting so innocuously in the middle of the table, and stared at it incredulously.  Hunk’s friend sounded so scandalized at the idea of someone not being gung-ho about yoga, and it didn’t sound at all put upon, it sounded completely authentic.  Was this guy for real?

 

Hunk smirked slightly.  “Only thing the faithful love more than their congregation is a convert.”  Everyone at the table, hell, probably even Bitchy Mom and Sticky Kid, could tell it was a challenge.

 

Keith fought down the urge to groan and stared at the side of Hunk’s head.  He hoped his eyes managed to deliver all the promises of bodily harm he willed them to.  He didn’t want to be anyone’s challenge any more than he wanted to be their project.

 

“As always, dude, you get me on a soul deep level,” those words from Hunk’s still unnamed friend were whispered and reverent.

 

Slightly pink in the cheeks, but pleased nonetheless, Hunk moved on like the conversation had never hit a snag.  “I know you don’t normally do classes without having some sort of membership to the studio, but I remember you were running that trial membership thing near the beginning of the year - you still doing that?”

 

His friend hummed in agreement.  “I am, but I’ll do you one better.  Tell him, presuming he’s not one of our eerily silent lurkers, that I’ll give him three classes free.  If he’s not convinced after that, well, I’ll just consider it a favor for the most attractive friend I have, and if he ends up seeing the error of his ways and appreciating what a yoga practice can do for him, then I’ll set him up with a membership.”

 

Keith was already shaking his head before the guy even finished his offer.  He jumped into the conversation before Hunk could even think about answering for him.  “That’s uh - that’s actually really cool of you, but it’s not necessary.  I’m not looking for anything special; I just didn’t want to commit to a membership contract or anything.  I can pay for the trial thing.”  It was bad enough that he was useless to his fucking department, he wouldn’t be some guy’s charity case on top of it.

 

A sharp noise of irritation burst out of the speaker.  “We can argue about it later, I really do have to go.  Hunk, bring him by tomorrow; we’ve got three beginner’s classes scheduled.  I may not be manning the front desk, but I’ll let Coran know he’s coming.”

 

Hunk smiled warmly at his phone, as if his friend might be able to see it if he just tried hard enough.  “Thanks, Lance.  You’re the best.”

 

“So you know, I’m doing the finger guns,” was the reply over the phone.

 

“Of course you are.”  Hunk rolled his eyes in fond amusement.  “I owe you one.”

 

Once again dropping his voice to that husky register, Lance answered, “you can make it up to me later.”

 

“Still not gay,”  Hunk answered through laughter.

 

“Still don’t care,” Lance shot off before the call disconnected.

 

Again, Keith seriously felt the need to ponder whether or not this guy was for real.  Because that?  That was a lot to take in.  He stared at Hunk a little wide-eyed, wondering just what the fuck he’d gotten himself into.

 

Across the table, Shiro was looking equally as blown away.  “Wow.”

 

Hunk gave them both knowing smiles.  He appeared to be legitimately enjoying their hit-by-a-bus reactions to his friend.  “So that was Lance.”

 

Finally recovering some of his scattered wits, Keith jabbed a finger in the direction of Hunk’s phone.  “That is why I didn’t want to do yoga.  Clearly it makes you insane.”

 

Everything about Hunk, from his expression, to his body language, to the shine in his eyes suggested he was thoroughly entertained by all of this, even as he was shaking his head to disagree with Keith.  “Hate to burst your bubble, but Lance and I have been friends since he pushed Lotor Prince on the playground for talking me into eating glue in preschool.  It was definitely not the yoga that made him this way.”

 

Keith actually felt his jaw drop and his mouth pop open in response to that.  Prior to this moment, he’d never understood why people described anything as “jaw-dropping;” how naive he had been.  How blissfully, blissfully naive.  “I’m actually not sure whether that is more or less concerning.”

 

Both of Shiro’s eyebrows had climbed so far up his forehead that they seemed to disappear beneath his hairline.  “I’m not sure what part of that story is least horrifying.”

 

“Everything about Lotor Prince was horrifying,”  Hunk responded seriously before turning all his attention to Keith.  “You good with tomorrow?  They have a 9:30 beginner’s class.  I could meet you there after shift?”

 

Feeling a little like he’d signed up to go before a firing squad, Keith shrugged.  “Why not?  Might as well get this madness over with.”  A thought occurred to Keith then, and all the blood drained out of his face while he fought down a groan of horror.  He’d had a neighbor once that had been into yoga, and the guy wore pants so indecently tight Keith felt like he’d do better describing that guy’s junk to a sketch artist than he would some of the guys he’d dated.  “Do I have to wear the pants?”

  
Shiro and Hunk both dissolved into laughter at his stricken question, but Keith didn’t think it was funny at all.  Fucking yoga.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few quick things:
> 
> 1\. Thanks to everyone who commented/left kudos/etc. I tried to respond to many of you, but I'm still working on it. Be patient with me please.
> 
> 2\. TW: Keith has a panic attack and more details about the accident that caused his injury are revealed, which includes vague references to the death of original characters.
> 
> 3\. And finally, while normally I would feel like a pretentious asshole for saying this, and at the same time I also don't feel like I should need to defend myself, enough people have made comments about the length of time between updates that I felt like I needed to address it. So, updates are gonna take a while y'all, and I'm sorry I'm not sorry. If that's a problem, then this is not the Klance you're looking for. I'm committed to posting as high a quality of work as I'm capable of producing. I will not force updates - not for this story which feels so important to me in a lot of ways. Which means that chapters would likely take a while even if i had nothing else to do with my day and I always felt great. But since this isn't a fairy tale, I work full time, have a family that for some reason likes me enough to occasionally want to spend time with me, and I have a chronic illness for which there is no treatment and the primary symptom is severe fatigue. My health has been on the decline in recent months and I've just been too mentally and physically drained to do much writing at all. This isn't meant to be me bitching or trying to make anyone feel bad, this is me being real. I'll just never be one of those authors that updates quickly or consistently. It's a character flaw. But I'd like to think this story is worth sticking with anyway.

Sweat dripped from Keith’s temple and ran down his face to join the other droplets collecting on his chin.  He lifted a hand to swipe at it haphazardly before gravity did it’s job and deposited it in his bowl of Fruity Pebbles.  Not that the kaleidoscopic-colored, soggy mess could get much more disgusting at this point.  He’d been halfheartedly dragging his spoon through through this bowl of despair without actually taking any bites for the last half-hour or so.  

 

If anyone asked he’d blame it on exhaustion.  Every muscle in his body was screaming in agony and his arms in particular felt weak and rubbery with the obsessive way he’d worked them in the inkiest black hours of the night.  The truth was that no matter how he’d exercised his body, how hard he’d pushed himself to the point of fatigue hoping to wear out his brain as well, the remnants of the dream that had woken him and prompted this fiendish exertion lingered and refused to be shaken.  Every bite of cereal tasted like gasoline fumes on his tongue, and that tended to curb the appetite.

 

The first rays of sunlight peeking over the horizon were just starting to creep through the window over the sink when Pidge ambled in bleary-eyed and swaddled in an oversized hoodie even though it was June.  They made a beeline straight for the coffee pot, and didn’t turn to face Keith until they had fixed a cup and taken a few sips accompanied by a few noises of satisfaction that made Keith vaguely uncomfortable.  They turned around and leaned back against the counter to scan Keith with an assessing look.  “Another early morning?”

 

The soggy chunks swimming in milk were easier to face than Pidge, so he didn’t bother to look up from the bowl when he shrugged and answered.  “Yeah.”  He didn’t need to look at his friend to know their formidable mind was hard at work dissecting that statement and all it meant.  Keith often thought Pidge’s brain worked something like a computer: observing and inputting all the disparate pieces of data their dauntless observation uncovered and then processing it in frightening and mysterious ways before spitting out terrifyingly accurate conclusions.  The sterile and machine-like precision of it was simultaneously stressful and comforting.  In a weird way it was nice to not have to think about whether or not to attempt hiding things from his roommate since the endeavor would be futile.

 

Setting down their mug, Pidge ambled over to the toaster, bare feet making faint slapping sounds on the tile.  Their lip curled up faintly in an expression that was almost fond and began the complicated series of button pushing, cord wriggling, and rhythmic taps to the side that was setting their toaster and popped one of the bagels on the counter in it.  “Another nightmare?” they asked while still fidgeting with the toaster Keith had been advocating throwing out for years and Pidge insisted on repairing.

 

“Yep,” Keith replied, popping the P obnoxiously.  He was too tired for this shit.  Why did every single person in his life feel it necessary to give him the third degree whenever they saw him?  It was really starting to chafe.  Irritation crawled beneath his skin like a parasite, feeding on the wisps of fear and doubt clouding his mind in the wake of the nightmare and becoming engorged and bloated.  He felt out of control, unable to keep his body on the short leash he normally did, he knew his face was betraying everything he was feeling and suddenly he was weirdly grateful to Pidge for asking this of him while still facing away.  

 

They were also the only one of Keith’s friends that actually called his nightly visits from the ghost of PTSD present what they were - nightmares.  Everyone else - even the goddamned department mandated shrink - kept saying “dreams.”  These weren’t dreams.  Dreams were those things you held inside your chest, secret hopes for the future.  Or those psychedelic things that all you could remember upon waking was that it had involved your high school crush, a road trip, and Willy Wonka for some reason, or whatever the fuck.  Dreams weren’t reality warped by imagination wrapped in sense memory.  They didn’t tear at your sanity and sense of self with skeletal fingers of sharpened bone.  They didn’t fill you with terror and adrenaline, leaving you far too keyed-up to even  _ think  _ about sleep, yet hollowly exhausted at the same time.

 

Keith appreciated that Pidge had never shied away from the reality of that, but that didn’t mean he wanted to talk to them about it either.

 

The toaster gave a forlorn little beep that was so distorted and quiet that it more closely resembled a mechanical death rattle than an alert.  Pidge snorted at Keith and rolled their eyes before devoting all their attention to fishing the bagel out of the bowels of hot machinery it was trapped in since the toaster no longer really popped up when it was finished either.  They gave the appliance one last appreciative pat and muttered “thanks, Rover,” around a yawn.  Pidge’s  _ thing _ with that fucking toaster was beginning to border on creepy.  

 

They’d never actually admitted to Keith where the thing had even come from, simply showing up with it tucked under their arm on the second day in the shoebox-sized apartment they’d shared Pidge’s first year in college and Keith had been fresh out of the academy.  The temperamental thing had been a fixture on their counter and in their mornings ever since.  In his more reflective and self-aware moments, Keith would admit that he liked the consistency of it - even if he’d given up on eating bagels and toast because Pidge was the only one who could ever get the fucking thing to work.

 

A natural, comfortable silence stretched while Pidge moved right from extricating the slightly singed baked good to slathering it with cream cheese and fruit.  Breakfast prepared to their satisfaction, they turned back to Keith and favored him with a considering look.  “You going to that yoga thing with Hunk today?” they asked through a hearty bite of bagel.

 

Keith grimaced and nodded, but he was happy that they’d let their original line of questioning drop.  Normally Pidge was the friend that stood by and watched Keith fuck up without interference, only involving themselves enough to mock him endlessly throughout the process.  It was a system that had worked so well for them up until now; it was nice to see that Pidge hadn’t entirely abandoned the status quo.  The few bites of sugared and artificially flavored puffed rice he’d managed to choke down roiled in his stomach at the concept of his situation being dire enough for  _ Pidge _ to feel the need to counsel him about it.

 

Pidge snickered and somehow managed to make taking another bite look amused and smug.  How was it possible for chewing to be smug?  Of course Pidge possessed an uncanny ability to make virtually any activity look smug and faintly mocking like it was their motherfucking superpower or something.  If they were a superhero, they’d be the refreshingly gender-neutral Dr. Smug - role model to non-binary sarcastic assholes everywhere.  “Have fun with that,” they chirped, an oddly knowing glint in their eye.

 

A prickle of unease carded icy fingers through Keith’s brain.  Normally he wouldn’t positively reinforce his roommate’s terrible habit of baiting him with cryptic taunts by folding like a house of cards, but something about the curl of their lips prodded at the part of Keith’s brain that was pathologically incapable of backing down from a challenge.  He studied their expression for a few seconds longer before giving in to the inevitable.  “What do you know?” he asked, a sigh woven through the words.

 

Pidge was tiny, but in that way that bulldogs were - in that tough, relentless way.  Weakness in any contest - even those held over pathetic breakfasts and far too early in the morning - was something to be seized in strong jaws and held on to at all costs.  Somehow, Pidge managed to look even more smug (it truly was a gift) when they bit down on Keith’s forfeit.  “Hunk’s friend is pretty hot.”  Each word was a gauntlet thrown down.

 

Oh was that all?  Relieved, Keith barked out a laugh and flopped back in his chair.  “He’s also insane.”  Really, Pidge ought to know better than to think Keith was the type to lose his composure over being around someone attractive.  Not only were all of his friends kind of ridiculously attractive, but Keith had even been out with quite a few startlingly beautiful men, ended up in bed with even more, and not a single one had made him loosen the death-drip he had fisted around his self control by even a fraction.  Why on earth was Pidge acting like Keith would go panting after this Lance guy just because he happened to have good looks to accompany his clear mental instability?  Especially after that bizarre phone call.

 

Pidge waved a hand dismissively - the one holding their bagel - and rolled their eyes.  They dutifully ignored the scattered crumbs and little drip of cream cheese now clinging to the edge of the counter.  “That’s gonna matter so much less when you see how pretty he is, trust me.”

 

That loud thump was the sound of the other shoe dropping and Keith’s confusion clearing up.  This wasn’t Pidge anticipating him acting on any attraction he might feel, but rather  _ goading him into it _ instead.  Great; here they went again.  Annoyance dropped like a pebble into the already stormy seas of Keith’s mind; though it was impossible to tell which ripples were caused by his roommate’s words and which were not, they certainly didn’t help.  Keith shot them an irritated look.  “This is about my knee, not about getting a date.”  Not that his opinion on the matter would likely be much different even if he were perfectly healthy.

 

A slow, devious grin crept over Pidge’s face.  “Who said anything about dating?  As you're so fond of reminding us all - dating is not your thing.”

 

_ Why? _  Why did he keep having to have this conversation with his friends?  Keith dropped his spoon in his bowl with a deep sigh and a slosh of milk.  “Exactly.”

 

Pidge raised an imperious brow at him.  The gesture reached epic levels of judgement; they’d obviously picked up something from Shiro because their eyebrow game had been  _ on point _ lately.  “Doesn't mean you have to live like a monk.”

 

Both of Keith's eyebrows had already started climbing up his forehead in an automatic reaction of alarm to that particular expression on his friend’s face.  Then Pidge’s words registered in his brain and they increased their pace.  “You want me to hook up with one of Hunk’s friends and then keep showing up at the guy’s studio?”

 

Pidge laughed loud and mocking at the shocked horror on Keith’s face.  “Maybe it’ll get you out of the yoga.  I’d guess that some really athletic sex would be just as good for strengthening the knee as yoga would.”

 

Keith buried his head in his hands and spoke through his fingers.  “Oh?  Is that your official medical opinion?”

 

Pidge waved a hand through the air dismissively.  “Nah, it’s my official roommate opinion.  You need to get laid, this guy is hot, and he’s likely to be  _ very  _ flexible.  Seems like a waste of an opportunity to ignore all that, in my opinion,” they finished with a leer.

 

“You’re a menace.”  Keith groaned.  “Why do all of my friends find it necessary to tell me how to live my life?”

 

“Because you keep fucking it up when you’re left to handle it on your own,” Pidge answered cheerfully.

 

The only response Keith deigned to give that was a brief middle finger.  They lapsed into another comfortable silence while Keith continued to poke forlornly at his no longer edible breakfast and Pidge finished theirs.

 

When they were finished, Pidge dumped their dirty dishes into the sink, grabbed their messenger bag off the table, and shoved their feet in the pair of ratty flip-flops by the door.  “I’ve got a study group late tonight and then an overnight shift at the station, so I won’t see you ‘til tomorrow.”

 

“Okay,” Keith acknowledged.  In their tradition of not voicing their concerns about each other, Keith bit his lip on the observation that Pidge was going to drop dead if they tried to maintain this workload for the entirety of the semester.  Majoring in pre-med, minoring in biomedical engineering, and working fifteen to twenty hours a week as a dispatcher for the fire department and still continuing to remain alive should not be a thing that was possible.  If Keith was the type to believe in those things, he’d suspect something supernatural at work.

 

Pidge gave Keith one last unreadable look and then headed for the door.  Just before opening it, they stopped and spoke without turning around.  “I hope the yoga helps.”  There was no sarcasm in their voice, only sincerity, and then they ruined all of that by continuing, “I also hope you look as stupid as I’m imagining you will.  I’m gonna have to see if Hunk will get me pictures.”  They hurried out before Keith could mount a protest.

 

Unsure how he felt in the aftermath of that conversation, Keith stood and took his bowl to the sink, dumping the mess it contained and watching everything swirl down the drain.  Had he really become that pathetic and concern-inducing following his injury that even Pidge, the least qualified of his friends to lecture him about pushing himself too hard and reclusive and asocial tendencies, felt compelled to point it out?  He knew the answer was yes.  He just didn’t know what he was supposed to do about it or if he even cared enough about his mental state to do anything at all (and wouldn’t his next visit with the psychiatrist be  _ fun _ if he mentioned  _ that _ .)  The only thing Keith cared about at the moment was getting full use of his leg back, going back to work, being part of a crew again, riding in the seat next to Shiro again while the sirens wailed - helping people.  The way he’d failed to do the day he’d injured himself.  

 

Remnants of the dream he’d crawled out of bed and then worked for hours to beat out of his head physically curled through his brain and flickered across his inner eye.  Keith blinked and the running water from the tap was tinted pink; the stainless steel of the sink felt warmer, like it was holding back the first licks of flame; he could smell the copper tang in the air, could taste the gasoline fumes as they shimmered almost prettily out of the ruptured gas tank.  Suddenly, he was aware of the cacophony of aches and spasms in his muscles, reminding him of his stupidity in the wee hours of the night - they did nothing to drown out the cacophony in his head though.

 

The noise was the worst, always the worst.  Keith had been a firefighter long enough to have seen some awful things, seen the wreckage that could be made of structures, bodies, lives, by forces too strong for arrogant humans to ever control completely.  It wasn’t the memory of the images that haunted him; it was always the sounds.  He’d never be able to forget the way that over the frantic bark of commands from Shiro and Hunk’s yelling for Keith to stop the crying and the screaming had been deafening.  Or the way that once his ears had stopped ringing several minutes after the explosion that he’d no longer been able to hear that crying or screaming - only the roar of the flames.

 

The sun through the window was no longer simply slicing through the dark of the kitchen to make glittering art of the dust motes, but now washing over Keith’s skin and making him feel like he was lying too close to a burning SUV and unable to drag himself away on a ruined knee.  That was too much for his overworked legs apparently, the muscles trembling and threatening to give.  Tired of fighting it all, Keith sank to the floor and pressed his hands over his ears to drown out the accusatory silence, free of screaming.

 

Lost in his own head that way, time was an ephemeral concept, and Keith had no idea how long he spent curled up on the tile and forgetting to breathe every few seconds, his knee burning like it still had a hunk of metal imbedded in it.  What he did know was that the chime of his phone where it laid on the kitchen table was what drew him out of it.  He pushed himself to standing on wobbly legs and managed the few feet of distance on mostly willpower alone.  He snagged his phone and woke the display to find a text from Hunk.  

 

_ Still gonna meet there or want me to pick you up? _

 

Keith considered for a minute before tapping out a response with thumbs that only trembled slightly.   _ meet u there. _  He appreciated the offer, but this morning was going to be difficult enough without being trapped in a confined space with Hunk and his frighteningly effective concerned expressions for the twenty minute drive to the studio.

 

The follow up text was an address and the name of the studio:  _ Rock Your Chakra! _

 

A snort of amusement erupted from Keith and he was replying before he’d even consciously decided to.   _ why am i not surprised? and why is the exclamation point the most offensive part of that? _

 

Hunk’s answer was swift and affectionately long-suffering.   _ That’s Lance - unsurprisingly offensive in surprising ways. _

 

Keith laughed and fired back with,  _ and yet u force me into his place of business claiming he can help me.  *is skeptical* _

 

All Keith got back was the smirking emoji and  _ see you there! _

 

He rolled his eyes and set the phone down without replying - it wouldn’t do to encourage Hunk - and headed in the direction of the shower.  He was self-aware enough to appreciate the way faint tremors no longer danced through his body and it was now easier to breathe.

 


End file.
